White Noise
by Piker Benunder
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an extraordinary man with an extraordinary mind, solving even the most complex cases in his sleep. So how will he react to a seemingly impossible case, a mystery too big even for himself? Will he break, or will he persevere under the pressure of his shattering psyche? And what's John doing?
1. Chapter 1

"And how exactly would a biography benefit me, John?" Sherlock asked, sitting in his armchair while eyeing the skull on the mantelpiece.

John knew this question would come and thusly was prepared. Sitting at the table in front of the window, he looked up from his laptop and answered, "As I said, I think it would boost your popularity, which in turn would mean more clients. Furthmore-"

"Furthermore," Sherlock interrupted, "you are an author out of luck and success, whose brillant works have so far been painfully ignored by both the dumb public and the misjudging critics?" There was a mischievous grin gracing his lips, garnished by unmistakable sneer in his voice.

Sherlock Holmes, the grand detective, who solves even seemingly impossible cases in his sleep, could turn grumpy in the blink of an eye without proper intellectual exertion. The banal, everyday life tired him, did not exert him. John Watson, his loyal assistant and best, because only friend, knew this all too well. He did everything he could to gain new clients. Unsurprisingly, they did not have this discussion for the first time, nor would it be the last. On a day like that, when nothing at all happened, at least this was a way to keep Sherlock somewhat entertained. He knew Sherlock did not want to hurt him. That was just how he expressed his friendship, John kept telling himself.

Nevertheless, he hoped for a knight in shining armor, who would grant them a new case. The longer he had to endure Sherlock's boredom-fueled grouchiness, the more he tried to remember the murder cases Sherlock had solved. 'A Study in Pink', 'The Blind Banker', The Long Rod'. At the end of the day, Sherlock had done more good than bad.

Reminiscent of the galloping of a gallant gray horse, there was a knock on the door, cutting through the thick air in Sherlock's apartment as if it were a well-placed strike of a sword.

"Come in!" Sherlock called. He was uncertain whether to be happy about the potential activity, even if it was just Mrs Hudson with the mail, or to be irritated already by the banality most likely awaiting him – e.g. the mail.

The door swung open and Lestrade, soaking wet due to the ongoing heavy rain, and slightly out of breath, as usual when he came to Sherlock. An effect Sherlock seemed to have on many people.

"Sherlock, we need your help with a case. Come, I'll brief you on the way," Lestrade said. "No time for tea!" he shouted towards Mrs Hudson.

Finally, both Sherlock and John thought. On the way outside Sherlock asked, "How long will this take?"

"Long," Lestrade answered between two deep breaths.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Mrs Hudson, expect me back soon."

During the drive to the crime scene, Lestrade clarified the circumstances of the case. In an abandoned warehouse in a suburb of London, the body of a young woman was found, apparent cause of death was a broken neck. However, there was no further evidence of another person to be found anywhere on the crime scene or in the near vicinity. The only traces were left by the victim, muddied footprints over large parts of the compund, and the night guard who found her. The distance between each of the victim's footprints gave rise to the hypothesis that she was in a hurry, possbily fleeing from someone or something. She had nothing on her besides her clothing.

"There is no further evidence?" John asked doubtfully.

"Yes, there is," Lestrade let them know, sitting in the driver's seat, "a camcorder. But there's only one video saved on it, and that's just white noise. Nothing else."

Sherlock's curiosity kept rising steadily, he instinctively knew when he was presented with a special case.

"Any idea who the woman might be?" John wanted to know in his strife to look professional.

"Not yet, but we're working on it." Lestrade was visibly confused, he almost seemed clueless. "We'll let you know right away once we find something."

The rest of the drive was spent in awkward silence, until they finally arrived at the crime scene. As it turned out, Lestrade told them everything there was to tell. A dead woman, no supsicious traces. A welcome challenge for Sherlock's sixth sense of deduction. No lint or animal fur on the body, as would be expected if she had gotten there by car. A lot of mud on the boots, and her hair and clothes were still wet, indicating that she had been outside of the warehouse for an extended period and that the probable murder occurred not long ago. Her fingernails were clean and intact, her clothes were not torn, no blood or traces of a fight anywhere – so no fight with the culprit.

Lestrade broke the silence, "And?"

Sherlock was bewildered, a few seconds later mumbling, "Nothing."

Not the answer Lestrade had hoped for, who started aimlessly walking around in a circle, folding his hands behind his head. "Nothing?" he asked, unconvinced. "There's got to be something. You always find something!"

"Not this time. Not yet, at least." After some consideration, Sherlock's expression lit up to an almost imperceptible degree. "Lestrade, show me the video."

"I already told you, there's nothing on it. But if you insist..." Somewhat reluctantly, Lestrade went to a colleague of his, who gave him a laptop. "There you go. We... copied the video, I think. Just watch it."

Sherlock pressed play, and the video started with the expected white noise. It was exactly five minutes and 38 seconds long, with the white noise persisting throughout the whole video, no noticeable changes. "Thrilling," John added.

"Told you so."

"Maybe," John felt he was on to something, "maybe it's twins." His glaze wandered from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again, full of hope to have cracked the first part of the puzzle, to have brought them one step closer to the culprit.

"No," both Sherlock and Lestrade shattered his dream.

John sighed. "So all we have is a video that's completely useless. Great."

But Sherlock sensed that there was something to the video. He could not say what exactly, because he did not know what it was, he just had an intuition. Even after the seventh rewatch, it seemed impossible to declare why the video had such a captivating effect on him.

Slowly he rose from his armchair and wandered to the fireplace. Oh, he thought, I am back home. This insight, however, only briefly made him forget about the video's static and flickering, which he had absorbed for a full 40 minutes at that point. He looked around the room. John sat in front of his laptop, writing, probably one of his usual glorifications of the cases Sherlock had solved. How could a man his age be so desperate for a hero, an idol? A riddle for another day, Sherlock decided. More urgent matters awaited him.

Why was the video so fascinating for him? There was nothing to see on it, nothing to hear. Or was he the only one who was able to perceive what everyone else was oblivious to? Should there be anything noteworthy, anything at all, he possessed the abilities to notice, he reassured himself. Apparently, then, it had to be something that was not apparent. A subliminal message in the static or the flickering of the black and white dots? A suppressed memory, cautiously scratching on the surface of his mind? Or did he miss some form of evidence on the crime scene, that would explain everything? His thoughts were racing, his head was trembling on the inside, it felt as if he was about to-

"Sherlock!" He heard a voice over the loud beating of his heart. Only a few seconds passed, it seemed, since he had gotten up. His reflection was as dapper and immaculate as always, his inner turmoil was nowhere to be seen.

He put on his usual slightly bugged face. Turning around, he asked, "What?"

"I asked what we should eat. Only breakfast is a bit sparse for a whole day. So, I was thinking French."

"French?" Focusing on that conversation was tough for Sherlock. "Yes, French sounds delightful. I... like French. Did you have anything specific in mind?"

"I have indeed." With a pleased smile, John turned around his laptop. On its screen was a recipe for 'Avocado-French-Toast'.

"Sounds good, why not", Sherlock exclaimed. "Do we have avocados?"

"Yes, astonishingly you do. Let's hope they're ripe."

A proper challenge! "That's easy to test. Follow me, I'll show you."

Together, they went to the kitchen. Sherlock picked up one of the avocados readily lying on the counter. "If it's generally soft, it should be ripe. So first of all, you should firmly, yet also carefully squeeze it."

That was exactly what he did. John observed fascinatedly how Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the avocado, delicately grasping it, before resolutely squeezing. With great care he sensed every bulge the fruit had to offer, every soft and hard spot. Under Sherlock's tight grip, John expected there to be more hard ones, considering his finger movements there seemed to be more soft spots, however.

"It appears to be ripe," Sherlock said.

"Apparently." John swallowed heavily, his hunger rising more and more.

"Let's be absolutely certain. We don't to waste our time with premature fruitlets."

Sherlocked picked up a toothpick. What was he planning to do with that, John wondered in excited anticipation. This slight confusion was more than visible, so Sherlock further explained, "I will now insert this toothpick under the avocado's stem. If it's ripe, this should be a smooth operation, just as pulling it out again afterwards."

Once more, he did exactly that under John's mesmerized glance. Carefully, Sherlock pushed the toothpick into the avocado, close to its stem, as he had announced. It slipped in without any resistance, merely a few squishy sounds. Sherlock slowly pulled out. To be absolutely sure of the avocado's ripeness, he stopped moments before the toothpick exited the avocado entirely and moved it in the opposite direction. After several more repetitions, the toothpick slipped out almost on its own. Stringy, viscous cream dripped out of the avocado. Cream was on the toothpick, dripping on the floor in front of Sherlock. Unnoticed, John opened his mouth in silent admiration, greedily looking after every drop hitting the floor. A small amount of cream leaked onto Sherlock's fingers, which he cupped with his mouth and licked with much delight.

"Ripe avocados are surprisingly tasty," Sherlock broke the ecstatic silence.

"That's the reason why I recommended avocado-french-toast. Do we have all the other ingredients?"

They did, and so they made and ate avocado-french-toast all night long. On the kitchen table, in the armchairs in front of the fireplace, wherever they wanted. Sherlock was certain that he would not be able to taste such a fine meal for quite some time, thus savoring every minute, not wanting it to ever stop. Consequently, the next morning the whole apartment was reeking of avocado, mixed with cheese and toast. Sherlock lied blissfully in his armchair, before being woken up abruptly by static.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Looking into the mirror, he noticed some avocado cream residue on his face, which he washed off slightly deliriously. He did not have a headache, yet it felt like his head was booming viciously. His face accurately mirrored his mood – crumpled and worn out. Not keen on being exposed to this sight any longer, he quickly brushed his teeth and put on some anti-aging cream. A cup of tea, that was what he needed next.

"John?" he shouted through the appartment. On his strenuous travel to the bathroom he had not noticed him, and even though he did not know what time it was, he knew it was much too early for a cumbersome search.

Suddenly, rustling and moaning behind him. "Mmmmmyeeesss?" it murmured towards Sherlock, which startled him, causing him to wave his hands around like a victorian lady her fan. Only due to his iron will did he not let go of a squeaky shriek. Instead, he quickly and sharply pieced two and two together and concluded that the mysterious person in the bathtub was none other than John himself.

"John!"

"Yes, well done, grand detective," it moaned from out of the tub. Slowly rising, John rubbed his bottom with a pained expression on his face. "Must've fallen down or slipped. Great, now I can't sit right again for a week."

"Tea?"

"Oh, God, yes. Just nothing with avocados, I've had enough of them for now."

They silently emjoyed their tea in the kitchen, which was still banged up from last night. John's thoughts revolved around many things, mostly how to explain all of that to Mary. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not occupied with the video, for a change. Last night, the tea – he had found a brief moment of inner serenity, and he wanted to savour every last second of it. Who could say when he would-

Suddenly, the appartment door swung open and Lestrade, out of breath, came rushing in.

He took a deep breath. "Sherlock! We've found two more bodies, matching the other one perfectly. Again, no clues, just these bloody videos. Please tell me you've had some sort of success with yours, because I'm at my wit's end." Lestrade shouted this into the appartment without pause, hoping Sherlock would hear it.

A dilemma: Sherlock knew he was in dire need of occupation, and some additional knowledge could only prove beneficial in finally solving the case. Was he really willing to go deeper down into the rabbit hole, deeper down into the depth of his own psyche, risking not being able to find back?

Absolutely. "What are we waiting for?" he called, motioning to John to follow him to the door.

"You haven't answered my que-" Lestrade started saying, but was interrupted by Sherlock, who grabbed him by the shoulders and simply turned him around. Pushing Lestrade in front of him and having John in tow, Sherlock left the appartment, but not without grabbing his coat first. As the day before, they drove to the first crime scene, while Lestrade told them everything there was to tell about it.

A young man in an abandoned house in Soho, everything else was exactly the same as it had been at the first crime scene. Once more, the search for additional clues yielded nothing, except for another video of white noise. How was Sherlock supposed to solve this case? He had no leads, not even the pinch of a hint. As much as he valued a proper challenge, this was far from his preferred ideal case. A starting point was what he needed, at the very least. Yet he still had high hopes it would start going uphill at the next scene.

However, he was presented the same picture there. A video, no other clues. There was one difference, though. The victim was a middle-aged woman. A deviation from the pattern? Did a pattern even exist? Both Sherlock and the police grasped at every straw they could find. But he knew when it was time for a tactical retreat. To compose onseelf, review everything and start anew with replenished vigor and fresh ideas. Maybe all he needed was a new point of view, one he could not reach from where he was at that time. Only, it could not look like a retreat, like he was fleeing from the challenge, lest Lestrade and John would judge him as weak, which was out of the question. Rattling and rattling was his mind, ever closer to a well-thought excuse, soon he would have-

"Oh, this is all a giant pile of steaming crap! I'm sick of it all, shove those damn videos up your VCRs!" he screamed and promptly stomped off.

Tactful and moderate, he as his own greatest critic judged. Furthermore, a rather creative departure, a fitting first step towards new and fresh intellectual approaches. Exactly what he wanted. Now he had more time for himself, for his thoughts, for the case, for whatever he wanted to do. Behind him, in the building he just left, he heard a murmur. A surprisingly easily impressed bunch of people, yet not completely unexpected. After all, he seemed to frequently have this effect on his fellow human beings.

Before anyone could follow him, he stepped into an alleyway and made his way towards a teahouse. Not a special one he had in mind and wanted to go to, one without distractions would suffice. He did not notice entering one, or ordering tea with some delicious nutella-banana-cake, or finding a quiet spot in the back where he placed his cup and plate. The soft background noise of typing on laptops, blathering hipsters, slurping yuppies – contrary to his expectations, it was oddly soothing. Focussing on nothing in particular in such circumstances could be overwhelming for other, simpler minds. A chaotic cacophony of loud noises. For him, it was akin to a wall separating him from the outside world, protecting him from unwanted thoughts and not bringing him anything new. Just he and what he decided to focus on. But what exactly was that supposed to be?

Well, tea and cake were a welcome change of pace, for starters. It had been too long since he had been able to feast on something sweet without concerns or dark thoughts. His anticipation came as much as a surprise as his involuntary reaction to lick his lips and rub his hands together in the prospect of what was about to happen. Carefully pulling the plate towards him, he picked up his fork. Slowly and steadily the fork was pushed into the cake, deep into the brown good. Sherlock delightfully shoved a big piece into his mouth, soon thereafter washing it down with a greedy sip of tea. In his elated ecstasy he could feel the warmth flow down his throat, and in a short time it warmed him in several other places of his body. Whether or not the other people in the teahouse were staring at or ignoring him in this moment of pure bliss was as much of a concern to him as the future of a whole country to a bunch of opportunistic politicians. Blanking out everyone in his near vicinity, there were only two important things – his cup of tea and the piece of nutella-banana-cake. Even his moans of pure pleasure could not ruin that moment. Quite the opposite, they rather elevated his spirits even further.

With every spirited swing of his fork his plate grew more and more empty, with every craving sip his cup became lighter and lighter. Sherlock did not notice. Had he noticed, he would not have cared. He got what he came there for, and he felt all around satisfied. With his own performance – eating that much was quite an accomplishment – as well as with what he was eating. The tea was full-bodied and fizzy, the cake moist and creamy-nutty. After a while, his post-culinary bliss faded and he slowly regained his senses. Still cheerful, he stopped ignoring his surroundings, something he had been doing for a few minutes.

Something caught his attention. To be precise, someone, at a table near Sherlock, whose appearance gave him a bad feeling. Sherlock only saw the man's back, yet he was absolutely certain that uneasy feeling in his stomach was not simply due to the ungodly amounts of tea and cake he had consumed. Without recognising him, he knew the man was no stranger. Should he stand up to get a closer look? No, that would have been too conspicuous. A covert operation was the way to success, absolute secrecy. He swiftly came up with a cunning plan. Taking his plate and cup, he started making his way back to the teahouse's entrance area. Clueless bystanders might have thought he was bringing back his crockery, falling for his brilliant plan hook, line, and sinker. With careful steps Sherlock slowly approached the mysterious man's table. Do not bottle it now, he thought, you are so close. As he stood almost directly beside the man, he started enacting his plan. Inconspicuously, like a secret agent, Sherlock bent over while walking, towards where the man was sitting, and stared at him with his rigid, wide open eyes. He would never be able to notice that, Sherlock was sure of that. But moments before he was able to see the man's face, he slightly shifted his body, so that his face was now turned away from Sherlock. He continued walking while panicking a bit, not knowing what to make of that situation. Had his cover been blown?

Suddenly, there was a loud noise and Sherlock knew what was happening. "ACHOO!" it boomed through the room. Sherlock was so taken aback, he lost his footing and stumbled backwards. His stealthy, somewhat unnatural posture did the rest in making him fall over. Not having a safeguard made him crash onto the floor hard. The teahouse around him turned black, Sherlock was passing out. The mysterious man was only a shadow, his face irrecognisable. Then... darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

A bright, white light welcomed Sherlock. A more dramatic personality would have thought they had been brought back to the world of the living. As it was, Sherlock was simply relieved, without realising that himself. Bit by bit, the light faded and was replaced by colours, which started forming people and objects. Several people stood around him, none of whom he seemed to know. His olfactory sense set in and he noticed a clutter of smells – he apparently still was in the teahouse. Muffled sounds became words, words became sentences. Some sentences were meant for him. Under this gathering of many different, single sensations, which slowly became a cohesive whole, he sat up.

"He's coming round!" That was too loud for his taste.

"And then she was like, you know, I'd NEVER do som-" That was too abhorrent for his taste.

"Careful, watch out," a compassionate, female voice said, while a hand supported his shoulder. That was too close for his taste, but in that moment he did not care as much as he would have had under normal circumstances.

"Do you remember what just happened?" Just? Evidently, he had only been out for a short time. Reaching this relatively simple conclusion took him a startling amount of time, not just by his standards. Too long for his liking.

The other person appeared to feel similarly, perhaps for different reasons, as she did not want to wait for an answer any longer. "You slipped and fell on your back. Must've hit your head pretty hard, you were totally out. Don't worry, not even for half a minute, should just be a mild concussion, nothing more."

Nothing more. Sherlock was not spectacularly happy about his brain being negatively affected, but at least he was still alive und could apparently think clearly, although slightly slower than usual. That was surely to be expected after such an injury, he reassured himself. Strangely enough, he almost felt more clearheaded than a few hours ago. To find out why that was the case was of no great importance to him, as he lacked the strength to explore that any further. Somewhat dizzy, he took a closer look at his guardian angel. It was one of the employees.

"We just wanted to call an ambulance, but luckily we won't have to now, right? A taxi should be fine. Do you want some tea while you're waiting? On the house, obviously!" she said visibly reliefed by Sherlock's relative well-being, given the circumstances.

"Yes, why not," he grumbled. It unintentionally sounded like he was upset, as if he was holding the employee responsible for what had happened, when actually he was only tired and exhausted. For the same reason, though, he also did not want to correct himself.

A few minutes later, now at almost a 100% of his capacity, he sat at a table and drank his free tea. He went through the events of before his little incident, to make sure he was remembering everything and that his mind was working as intended.

Tea, cake, what else? One memory was missing, what was – suddenly he remembered. Jumping up from his table, he carefully sprinted towards the entrance area, where the teahouse's counter and some of its employees were located. After arriving there, he described to them what the mysterious man looked like, the man he had been trying to fool. While he could not tell them much – he had not seen a lot of the man himself – the sight of the man's long coat had stuck with him, same as with his tall physique, something that was very apparent even though he had been sitting.

Nobody seemed to have noticed him. Some had a hint of an idea of having seen such a man, yet when he had left or what he had looked like they could not say. Sherlock desperately asked the other guests, but they too knew nothing. Why had nobody seen him? Had he left during the tumultous events of Sherlock's fall? If so, did he know who Sherlock was? Maybe the man wanted to lure Sherlock into a trap himself? No, too unlikely, Sherlock thought. He obviously fled when he realised how close Sherlock was on his tail. Similar to a cornered animal, he used his first chance to flee. Still, this epiphany did not bring Sherlock closer to his goal, because now he had to start again from scratch. No clues, no lead, no man. He might as well walk back to his appartment, to John, he thought. Perhaps John had some news.

"Oh, Sherlock!" it echoed towards him as he walked through the frontdoor. "Where have you been all this time? Don't you have a case you need to take care of? And leaving poor John all by himself..."

"Thank you for your concern, but that's unnecessary. The case doesn't run away and John is a grown man, he knows how to keep himself busy." The corners of Mrs Hudson's mouth twitched slightly, but she did not say anything more and disappeared into her appartment. Sherlock opened the door to his.

"Oh, so the fine gentleman has decided to pay the plebs a visit?" John sat at a table in the living room, writing something on his laptop. His head was turned towards Sherlock and there was no trace of negativity in his expression. More than that, it seemed like he was eager to hear what Sherlock had experienced and what of all that he was willing to tell John. Though he vehemently tried to hide his curiosity behind a cocky attitude.

"Were you able to find anything at the crime scene? Did anyone else die?" Sherlock asked on his way to the fridge, hoping to find some ice for the back of his head.

Doing so, he turned his back towards John. "Oh," John audibly gasped, "that looks nasty. Don't tell me the other boys pushed you? Do I need to have a word with their parents?"

"Joke all you want. I was this close, THIS close," Sherlock pushed index finger and thumb very closely together, "to a breakthrough. But... I..."

"Yes? You...?" John's anticipation was written in his face.

Sherlock closed the fridge and bent down far enough so that John could barely see him. "I slipped and hit my head. Nothing more happened and I'm feeling splendid, thanks for asking." He put an ice cold pack of peas on the lump on his head and walked back into the living room, sitting down in his armchair, leaning back, and taking a deep breath. Relaxation, finally. Even John's childish giggling could not keep him from relishing his comfortable armchair.

"You haven't answered my questions."

"Questions? Oh, yes, right. Uhm, no, we didn't find anything. Lestrade's checking for comparable cases in the past. Other than that, we're no further since your... departure."

"No, nothing similar or comparable. I'd know about that," Sherlock mentioned in a dry and absent-minded fashion. "And yet... what's so familiar about it?" he murmured.

John decided not to question that any further. He would have only distracted Sherlock, and that was stress none of them needed, which is why they spent the rest of the day like most other days. Sometimes Sherlock appeared to have an idea, only to sink back into his chair without saying a word. No report from Lestrade, neither a new body nor any findings regarding his investigations. No progress until late in the evening.

A loud, frustrated moan from Sherlock in the kitchen broke the intense silence. "It's too claustrophobic here. Let's go outside, clear the mind," he proposed.

"A walk? Sure, why not."

An unexpected idea from Sherlock, John thought to himself, but it was a nice surprise from the back of the kitchen where Sherlock was. "Don't forget your coat," he reminded Sherlock while getting up. "The weather's unpredictable, so some protection against the rain or cold could be handy. Better safe than sorry, eh?"

Outside, on the streets, it was astoundingly quiet. The weather was nice, a bit brisk, but still dry and not too windy. No idea of where to go exactly, they just started walking. Sherlock thought he was following John, John thought he was following Sherlock. Thus they came to many different places and traversed many a back alley. Indeed, it was very refreshing and relieving, exploring without a goal in mind and taking in all the different impressions. Sherlock felt his mental power regenerating, making him feel optimistic. Perhaps he could solve the conundrum surrounding the deaths and the mysterious man, after all.

Both Sherlock and John were so deep in thought, they did not realise how they suddenly ended up in front of an old, abandoned warehouse, not unlike the crime scenes. A tall, wooden door, framed by aged bricks, in a wall with several large windows. Everything was still intact, yet it was obvious nothing had been stored in there for quite a while. Sherlock and John stopped simultaneously, both subconsciously noticed the similarity to the houses they had recently been observing corpses in. Without uttering a word, Sherlock walked to the door und opened it slowly, while John followed him. The streetlamps' light shined through the windows and the open door, illuminating the warehouse's inside. Dust and cobwebs everywhere, no signs of any trespassers. And yet, an uneasy feeling crept over Sherlock, that they were not alone.

"I take it you don't have a flashlight with you?" Sherlock took a few steps forward to have a better look at the room in its entirety. A few dusty wooden boxes, opposite of the entrance a passageway deeper down into the building, nothing else to be seen.

"No," Johnt glanced around nervously, "but you don't seriously want to go further? Are you an urban explorer, all of a sudden?"

Sherlock walked to a group of boxes. No label, no indication what had once been transported in them. Or maybe something was stored in them? All the dust hindered him from looking closer. Instead, he headed towards the passageway.

Standing in front of it, he paused and pondered. "It's probably better if we left now."

As he turned around, from deeper down the building a noise resonated. Metal on metal. Sherlock and John gave each other a meaningful look and, knowing that turning around was not an option anymore, advanced deeper into the warehouse.

The further they went, the more nervous they grew. Their hearts beat harder, their mouths dried, their breathing quickened. After what felt like an eternity they finally reached another storage depot. It was smaller than the one at the entrance of the warehouse, and completely empty. Left and right they saw a heavy metal door on each side, probably leading to even more depots. Neither Sherlock nor John had any desire to split up and look around separately. However, as Sherlock turned around, John had vanished. He had not heard a thing, and why should John just leave? But he could not think about that any longer, he came too far to turn around, John would probably show up again soon.

Where to go? A tough decision, especially because there were no solid reasons for or against either side. No foot prints, and the noise from a few minutes ago could not be placed. Nevertheless, he felt like the left door was speaking to him. A hollow sound, almost like static. Or was it a voice? Did he hear someone behind the door, John or the man? Standing around longer would not solve that mystery, so he decided to open the left door.

Groaning loudly and under great effort, Sherlock pushed against the door. A small gap sufficed for him to be able to pass through, finding himself in some form of machine room. Various large machines, most likely used for sorting work, stood in the room. As he walked further into the room, a figure appeared from behind one of the machines. Thanks to the moonlight shining through the windows, it was just bright enough for Sherlock to perceive the person's physique and clothing. It was none other than the mysterious man.

For a moment, both simply looked at each other in complete silence. Sherlock could not see his face. As it became apparent the man was not going to start a conversation, Sherlock took the initiative.

"Well," he paced forward and hoped he appeared calm and relaxed, "here I am. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Luring me into this warehouse, all by myself. What now?"

No answer.

"Don't you want to tell me who you are? What your big plan is, why you killed all those people?"

No answer.

Sherlock grew nervous. "You want me to tell you all that, don't you? Because you think you presented me with an unsolvable riddle." Where was John? His usual impeccable timing meant he had to arrive soon.

Suddenly, the man took two steps in Sherlock's direction and stood directly in the moonlight. He shook his head in dismay, as he realised who he was facing.

The man was tall, wearing a long coat. Unkempt hair, an unsual face. He looked exactly like Sherlock. The only difference was the man's twirled mustache and pointy, thin goatee. A combination only one man could have been wearing.

Sherlock struggled for words. "My twin... SHERKEY!"

Philip Anderson leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and looking at his appartment's ceiling. In front of him was his laptop, in the last spot on its screen the word 'Sherkey'. He was not satisfied with this revelation. It felt too fast, the story needed more air to breathe and unfold. Furthermore, he did not like the name Sherkey. Sherlock, Sherkey, there had to be a more elegant alternative. Shimlock? Shimkey? Whatever, it had to wait. For the time being, he was more than content with his magnum opus and the shocking twist at the end. Now, he had to prepare for a fan meeting.

Sherlock shut the laptop. He was perplexed and did not exactly know what to make of what he had just read. Was it normal for an author to insert themself into their own so-called fanfiction, he wondered. And so crudely at the end. That would be far too much craving for attention for his liking, but to each their own. Not much time to dwell on that. He had an appointment, and he was excitedly looking forward to it.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Clothed in his bathrobe, he opened the door.

"'ello monsieur, I am Jean. I 'ave 'eard, you need to 'ave a pipe layed?" a muscular man in formfitting workwear asked. His full mustache perfectly complemented his blue-grey-brown eyes.

"Exactly, come on in, Jean." Sherlock guided the plumber to the kitchen. "I'm afraid the pipe behind the sink is broken. Do you think you can fix it?"

"Of course, you do not worry about that. It looks like I need one of my special, especially long pipes for this one. I do not want to risk you being dissatisfied with my work, cher."

"I'm absolutely not worried about that, Jean."

John proudly saved the document. Once again, he had outdone himself, he as his own greatest critic had to admit. First the ruse with Anderson, totally inscrutable. Should someone of phenomenal intellect read his story and actually see through that ploy, he had created a brilliant diversion with Jean. Not only was he surprised with how well-elaborated and profoundly characterised he was, there was also no connection between them. He was certain no one would suspect Jean to be pure chicanery. That way, John could be positive he would have a lot of joy with Jean in the future.


End file.
